


House of Cards

by mybrotherharry



Category: Batman v Superman: Dawn of Justice, DC Extended Universe, Man of Steel (2013), Superman/Batman (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Break Up, But not in a good way, Dark Bruce Wayne, Fake Dating, Fake Relationship, Identity Porn, M/M, Not A Fix-It, Not A Happy Ending, Post-Break Up, So much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:41:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mybrotherharry/pseuds/mybrotherharry
Summary: Bruce decides to date Clark Kent in order to weaken Superman. Clark thinks they are falling in love.aka the BvS AU: what if, instead of trying to beat Superman to death, Bruce had decided to pretend to date him and deplete his powers?





	House of Cards

**Author's Note:**

> For Elzora, who loves Clark Kent, and this muse.
> 
> Warnings: One half of the couple in this story is manipulating the other. This is a portrayal of an unhealthy relationship. The Dub Con tag is to stress that one half of this couple is consenting to sex without knowing the full picture of what is going on.  
> I cannot stress the ANGST enough.  
> Not a Fix It. Not a happy ending. But (I would like to think) still a better story than BvS.

**Now**

"I am coming!" 

Clark yells from the bedroom, fumbling in the dark for his glasses, the other hand reaching for the light switch, knocking over his bedside clock and various odds and ends, bumping his knee against the dresser.

Cursing, hopping on one foot, he flips the switch and adjusts his glasses that are sliding off his nose. The knocking at the door is loud and persistent, and for one brief moment, Clark wishes he had his powers back just so he can use his heat vision to blow the damn thing off.

_No. Never again._

Shaking his head, he makes his way through his living room (there are dirty clothes on the couch, and the remains of Chinese takeout on the carpet; Martha Kent would box his ears if she ever saw the state of this place) to the door in his boxers. He is not putting on a shirt at four am for someone who thinks four am is a good time for a social call. 

He opens the door.

When he takes in who is standing on his doorstep, he regrets every decision he's made in the last minute and a half. Maybe in the last year. 

He should have put a damn shirt on. Maybe cleaned up his living room. Brushed his hair. Picked up a hot, young boyfriend along the way. 

Because Bruce Wayne is standing on his doorstep at four am, looking pristine in a bespoke suit, with the air of someone who just belongs in every room they walk into.

Clark does the only thing that makes any sense to him. He slams the door shut in his face, and goes back to bed.

~

He doesn’t actually fall back asleep. He can’t. Bruce Wayne, on his doorstep, again.

If he had his superhearing, he would reach out to listen to Bruce’s heartbeat, because he is certain that the man is still standing outside his door. 

A part of him even craves it, the longing to listen to Bruce’s heart used to be a constant in Clark’s life. He’s spent several evenings lying on top of Bruce, his ear pressed to the man’s chest, feeling the thump-thump of his heart.

He used to think it fitting. After all, it had been his heart that Clark had fallen in love with first.

_What is he doing here?_

That’s the question, isn’t it? When they had last seen each other, more than a year ago, the split had been quite clear to both parties. Clark can’t think about those days any more. He can’t remember the aftermath of that.. clusterfuck without breaking down.

He had loved Bruce Wayne. 

Every frame of their history together is now tinged with the stink of betrayal, it sits heavy and bitter on his tongue. He can’t let it go. Bruce had made it very clear that Clark was _unworthy. Unwanted._

Clark knows when he is not wanted. He had left. He had walked away. He had destroyed everything about him that terrified batman, just so Bruce Wayne would leave him alone. Clark is a harmless reporter now. Clark is not a threat to this world. Clark is nothing, and there is nothing in Clark that would interest a man like Bruce Wayne.

He gives up tossing and turning on the sheets at five thirty, and goes to take a shower. By six, he is dressed and ready to leave, filling up his go mug with coffee, and grabbing one of the muffins his mom sent him with last week. Breakfast in hand, his bag slung over the shoulder, he steps outside his apartment at five past six.

He walks into Bruce Wayne.

Bruce reaches out an arm to steady him, the clumsy, bumbling reporter and falls into step beside him. 

“This is private property,” Clark grits out, looking straight ahead, not breaking stride. He has to get to work. “Don’t make me call the police.”

“I bought the building,” Bruce states. Clark hates how his entire body thrills at hearing the sound of that voice. Bruce always sounded soft and rich, unlike his alter ego.

“Of course you did,” Clark chuckles, dry and sarcastic, and so very tired. “What do you want?”

“Are you going to work at six am?”

“What do you want with me, Mr. Wayne?”

“Clark-”

“Don’t!” he snaps, because he has put up with a lot of nonsense from this man over the years, but he won’t stand to be called by his given name again, because Bruce - Bruce took that name and sucked it of all meaning, broke something precious and fragile - “Don’t you dare!”

Bruce falls silent, and Clark speeds up his stride, biting into his muffin and taking gulps of the hot coffee. Once he gets to work, he will have no time to breathe. He’s got the B team meeting about an investigative piece that Lois is working on, and then he’s got to edit all the articles for the supplement pages, and he knows Perry’s going to want to discuss expanding his role as Assistant Editor… 

“You’re walking to work,” Bruce’s voice pulls him out of his reverie.

“They don’t call you the World’s Greatest Detective for nothing.”

“I heard you got promoted,” Bruce continues. “Assistant Editor. Congratulations.”

There was a time when Bruce used to say, “How was work, honey?”. Clark used to answer him with the details of his day, of getting chewed out by Perry, of writing a thousand word editorial on gang wars in the city, and about rescuing Lois from her latest harebrained idea to get the scoop on a story.

They are not the same people any more.

“Why are you following me, Mr. Wayne?” he asks, because the sooner he sends Bruce Wayne away from his new, barely held together life, the better.

“I need your help.”

Clark stops in his tracks, and Bruce catches himself from crashing into him at the last moment, rolling to a halt beside him.

“What did you say?”

"I need your help. There is something coming for Earth. Something big, and I am putting a team together -”

Clark can’t help the laughter that escapes up his throat, mad and hysterical. Bruce looks surprised, looking at Clark with a puzzled expression.

When Clark finally pulls himself together, wiping the wetness on his cheeks with the back of a hand, he meets Bruce’s eye, and says, “You have a lot of nerve, asking me for help.”

“Clark,” Bruce snaps. “This is serious. I think just this once, we can set aside whatever personal differences we have between us and think of the rest of the world!” 

“Actually, no, we can’t.”

"Clark, you of all people can not stand idly by when people get -”

“I don’t have a choice in the matter, Mr. Wayne,” Clark tells him, dead serious. Then he does something that stuns Bruce to the core. 

Clark reaches inside Bruce’s jacket, feeling around the lining of the fabric for the little pocket sewn into the material, groping around until he finds what he’s looking for - the dark metallic batarang that Bruce secretes away into all his clothing.

He pulls it out, holds it up in front of Bruce’s face, and with the graceful movements of a ballerina, twirls it between his fingers, grips it, holds its one sharp edge to his other wrist and cuts. 

Shockingly, skin breaks. A line of dark crimson appears along the path of the batarang, blood seeping up to the surface, drops glistening on pale skin. Clark holds up his wrist in front of Bruce’s face.

“I am exactly what you wanted me to be, Mr. Wayne,” Clark tells him, voice devoid of emotion, cold and distant, “Ordinary.”

~

 ****By the time Clark gets to work, the cuff of his blue dress shirt is scarlet. The office is thankfully empty, like he’d known it would be. He’s been the first one at work everyday for the last year.

He gets to his cabin, which in itself is a nice perk that came with the promotion, opens the bottom drawer of his desk and reaches for his first aid kit. After watching him bump into everything and collect cuts and bleeds everywhere, Lois put first aid kits in every room of his apartment.

Clark knows he got the promotion only because Lois did not want it. Even if Perry tried, (and he didn’t), he couldn’t restrict Lois Lane to a cubicle office, editing other people’s stories. Clark had enough experience to not be terrible at it, and the steadfastness and reliability that engenders loyalty among reporters who trust their editor to have their backs. 

Clark is grateful for this job, all the same. Lois is happy as senior investigative reporter for the planet, and Clark is happy being her point guard from his cubicle office. 

He smiles, thinking of how happy she had been when he told her about the promotion.

The first week after losing his powers had been horrible, and he survived it only because he had Lois. There had been the suddenly necessary apartment proofing. He had needed to buy warm blankets and cold medicine. For the first time in his life, Clark had needed to buy pots and pans with heat resistant grips. 

Shaking his head, he gets out the box, quickly cleans the wound and wraps it up as neatly as he can manage. Even though he is wincing at the pain, he can’t regret his momentary indulgence in the dramatic. 

Once his wrist is wrapped up, he turns on his computer and opens his work email. He gets lost in catching up for a while, putting Bruce Wayne cleanly at the back of his mind while he makes a to-do list and starts ordering them by priority. If he plays this right, he may not have to leave the office till past midnight.

Anything to not go back to that empty apartment, and that empty life, haunted by the space of everything he lost.

~

It is a long day.

Being assistant editor means Clark now deals with everything that Perry doesn’t want to deal with right away. He spends the day trying to hold Lois back from publishing her half formed story. 

“Lois is a brilliant reporter,” Perry had told him on his first day in the new role, “and like all brilliant reporters, she thinks she has a story when he probably has one fourth of a story. It is your job to let her be the best reporter she can be.”

It is the favorite portion of Clark’s job. 

“The White House lied about these papers, Clark,” she is arguing with him now, standing in his office, her hands on her hips. “We have enough to publish.”

They don’t. They really don’t. Lois’ hunch is usually correct, but like hell if he is going to let her publish without being one hundred percent sure.

"Lois,” he says, pinching the bridge of his nose with his fingers, “I cannot go to Perry with his. Try your military contacts and run them dry. We need something more substantial than a classified report and quotes from a couple of high level sources at the Pentagon.”

It takes another forty five minutes of arguing before she leaves his office, clearing a path in front of her like a woman on a mission. 

Shaking his head, Clark returns to his work queue, editing content and sending suggestions back to his staff. 

“CK,” Jimmy sticks his head through the door around nine thirty in the evening, “Bruce Wayne here to see you.”

_What the -_

“Jimmy -”

“He says he is bringing you dinner,” Jimmy smiles at him, looking hopeful. Clark doesn’t have the heart to correct him. The entire office is involved in an elaborate _Get-Clark-a-life again_ mission. 

Bruce Wayne’s uncharacteristic wooing of a mild mannered reporter, their whirlwind romance, and eventual breakup had been all over the tabloids. Everyone at the Planet had witnessed Clark’s downward spiral after the breakup, when he had shown up at work looking horrible, and barely getting anything done.

They had all attributed it to heartbreak, and they were not wrong, but a major reason for it was also the aftereffects of losing his powers. That was the first week of Clark trying to live like a normal human being.

Clark sighs, not wanting to make a scene in the middle of his workplace. 

“Send him in, Jimmy,” he says. “But can you please - maybe not spread it around?”

“Bruce Wayne is standing in the middle of our newsroom with Chinese takeout, CK,” Jimmy tells him. “I think we have lost any hope of keeping that quiet.”

When Bruce enters his office, Clark sees that he is carrying the aforementioned bag of food. The brown paper is stained with grease, and Clark’s stomach rumbles at smell of deliciousness wafting from the bag. Even now, after nearly a year of living like a normal human being, Clark forgets to eat when he is supposed to.

“I brought dumplings from that place you like,” Bruce says in lieu of a greeting. Clark suppresses a grimace.

~

**THEN**

_Lois hits him with a heavy binder._

_'Ow!’ Clark says, less from any pain and more due to the principle of the thing. ‘What was that for?!’_

_'When were you going to tell me that you are dating Bruce Wayne?’_

_Clark fails at suppressing the flush that heats up his face._

_‘Oh God, you really ARE dating him!’_

_‘Lois!’_

_‘Spill, Smallville,’ she hops on his desk, crossing her arms over her chest. ‘Did you get a good quote?’_

_‘Lois!’_

_‘Don’t tell me you blew an opportunity to ask him about alleged human rights violations in the Wayne Enterprises factories in Taiwan!’_

_‘It wasn’t like that!’ he defends, and frankly, he doesn’t think Bruce has anything to do with human rights violations, ‘It wasn’t a professional interview, Lois!’_

_‘So it was a date! Have you slept with him yet?’_

_‘Lois!’_

_‘Well, have you?’_

_‘That’s none of your business,’ he says, hiding a smile, turning away to look at his computer screen, ‘Why are you asking me about Bruce Wayne anyway?’_

_‘Oh, he’s standing in the middle of our newsroom waiting for you,’ she says nonchalant, reading over his shoulder. ‘Is this the article about the Olympics Selection committee? Can I proofread?’_

_‘He is what?’_

_‘Said something about Chinese takeout,’ Lois says, uncaring, ‘Okay, how do you write without spell check on? Is this a Kansas bred superpower I don’t know about? Perfect spelling?’_

_Muttering under his breath, Clark leaves her to his computer and goes over to find Bruce, who is, as informed, standing in the middle of the bullpen, holding bags of Chinese food._

_‘Um,’ he says when he catches sight of Clark, beaming up at him, ‘Hi.’_

_‘Hi,’ Clark says in return, trying not to look too smug. Bruce meanwhile, is rubbing the back of his neck with a hand, looking embarrassed and flushed._

_‘I don’t do this a lot,’ he tells Clark._

_‘Go to press offices with a bag of food?’_

_Bruce lets out a nervous laugh, and he looks so adorable doing it. ‘I - Alfred - my butler, he thinks I am being ridiculous,’ he explains. ‘But I am not entirely sure if bringing a surprise lunch to your date’s workplace is appropriate?’_

_He phrases it as a question, looking so uncertain, eyes wide with nervousness. He is practically vibrating with energy._

_It is the sweetest thing Clark has ever seen._

_‘I don’t think it’s inappropriate,’ he smiles. ‘What did you bring me?’_

_‘Dumplings,’ he answers. ‘From that place you mentioned. There’s also rice and kung pao chicken.’_

_‘I do love kung pao chicken,’ he says, leading Bruce out of the bullpen. ‘We can eat in the park?’_

_‘I would love that,’ Bruce says. Now that Clark’s accepted his lunch offer, he looks relieved of his nervous energy, with some color returning to his cheeks. ‘But fair warning. Everytime I am in Metropolis, some tabloid gets a picture and runs it with a horrible headline.’_

_‘I guess I’ll just risk it.’_

_Bruce’s answering smile makes Clark’s heart sing._

~

**Now**

“I brought dumplings from that place you like,” Bruce says in lieu of a greeting. Clark suppresses a grimace.

“This is where I work, Mr. Wayne,” Clark can’t keep the fury out of his voice. 

"I am aware,” Bruce answers, moving several folders and papers off to one side, and unloading various containers out of the big brown bag on Clark’s desk. 

“It’s funny how you think I won’t get a restraining order,” Clark threatens, and a part of him even means it.

“I just want to talk,” Bruce looks up from where he is opening the container of hot and sour soup, “and maybe bring you dinner while I was at it. Have you eaten today?”

“We don’t do this anymore,” Clark points out. “Have you forgotten? Did you get all your lies mixed up again? We are not dating, and even when we were, the grand romantic gestures were all part of your ploy to get my pants off. Mission accomplished, Mr. Wayne. Please take your stuff and _leave_ before I call security.”

He ignores Bruce’s flinch. 

“This is not about you and me,” Bruce gives up any pretense around opening the food containers and sits back in the visitors’ chair. “I have intelligence - credible intelligence that suggests that Luthor has managed to establish contact with a fringe Kryptonian survivor group.”

Clark’s heart thuds in his chest, loud against his ribcage.

_That’s impossible._

“I am certain,” Bruce continues, “that another attempted invasion of earth is imminent.”

Clark leans back in his chair, considering.

_It can’t be.._

“Clark,” Bruce rests his elbows on his knees, leaning forward, “I know I have lied to you over and over again. You have no reason to trust me,” Clark scoffs, “but this time, I am telling you the truth. Bruce Wayne has lied to you. The Batman wouldn’t. Not about the fate of the planet.”

_Deep breaths, Clark._

“Does Diana know?” he asks, once he’s reasonably certain he isn’t going to punch Bruce in the face. 

“Yes,” Bruce nods. “And she agrees with my assessment.”

“Be that as it may,” Clark says, and he is not even done wrapping his head around _more Kryptonian survivors,_ “what do you expect me to do about it? I am just Clark Kent.”

“That’s the other thing,” Bruce says, and for the first time in this conversation, he looks like Batman, inquisitive and ready to pounce. This is the piece of information that’s been bugging him. This is the knot he hasn’t yet been able to untangle. “It’s been a year. The effects of the red room you were exposed to -”

“ -you mean the one _you_ exposed me to, while you were fucking me -”

“ - should have reversed with enough time in the Sun,” Bruce continues, persisting like he didn’t hear Clark, but even the Batman couldn’t hide that flinch, “Did that not - I mean, if there are permanent effects I didn’t know about -”

“You were hoping the effects would be permanent, though,” Clark says through gritted teeth. “Don’t pretend to care now, Mr. Wayne. I remember. What was it? _An alien who is too unpredictable? Too dangerous? Thinks he is above humanity? He needs to be sapped of his strength, to protect the world.”_

Bruce flinches again, but doesn’t look away.

“You made this bed, Mr. Wayne,” Clark says, running a hand through his hair. “You wanted me to be ordinary to protect the world. Guess what, I am ordinary. That means I can’t protect the world any more.”

“But you should be able to! Please - just come back with me. Long enough for me to run some tests! Let me at least figure out how to restore your strength.”

“I know how to do that.”

“What?”

“I know how to restore my strength. I am choosing not to.”

“Clark, come on, this is - you are being -”

“I believe I still have some choice over who I want to be,” he snaps. “And I choose this.”

Bruce is gaping at him like he is a stranger, like he is speaking a language he doesn’t understand.

“What happened to the responsibility? If you have the ability to help people, you must. Superman stood for hope. This sounds like selfishness.”

“Get out.”

“Clark -”

“Take your trash and get out!”

“Please, listen to me -”

“If you ever bother me again at work, or at my apartment, I will get a restraining order. I am not kidding.”

This time, there is no hiding the heartbreak in Bruce’s eyes when Clark shuts the door in his face.

Clark is done with Bruce Wayne, and there is no going back.

**Then**

It is not that hard to connect a meteor shower in Kansas in 1989 and follow the trail to an odd bus accident in Smallville, Kansas ten years later that had zero casualties. What gives it away, at the end of hours of hacking, research and pattern matching algorithms is this oddity - the tallest boy in a school with heavy athletics focus never played for the football team.

Bruce doesn’t like oddities. 

He searches, hunts and searches some more.

His search ends with a forged birth certificate. It is good work, almost authentic enough to hide the fact that it has been retroactively inserted into the system, a placeholder for Clark Jerome Kent, born April 18, 1989. Clark is 30 years old, has brown hair, blue eyes, is as tall as Superman and working at the Daily Planet as an investigative reporter with Lois Lane.

Lane’s story is interwoven with the story of Superman. When Bruce pulls up a picture of Kent from the employee database at the Planet, he has to seriously resist the urge to bang his head against a wall. The man is hiding in plain sight. He is wearing godawful lenses, but nothing else. There is no disguise. 

Nobody’s made the connection because it is _surreal._ Nobody expects to see Superman wearing oversized dress shirts and horrible ties and exit a newspaper building, so they just _don’t._

It is freaking brilliant. 

He thinks about a strategy for a long time. His long term goal is to cripple Superman enough to ensure he is not a threat. Bruce doesn’t trust a being that powerful to always retain an incorruptible moral core. Approaching him as Batman has done zero favors. Superman trusts Batman even less than Bruce trusts Clark Kent.

His strategy will need to be underhanded. It would be something that Alfred would definitely disapprove of.

He finds a facebook page of a senior from Smallville High. He makes child’s work of the privacy settings and downloads the picture. Clark’s prom date was a boy.

Making up his mind, he hacks into Kent’s email account to find an opening. Ten days later, he finds an easy one. Kent is attending the Kerth Awards for Exceptional Journalism. Wayne Enterprises should be able to find Bruce a ticket. One ticket, not two. He is going stag. 

~ 

He takes it very, very slow.

Kent is skittish, and seems naturally shy. Bruce is impressed by how well Kent keeps up the facade of a mild mannered, polite, harmless reporter. He comes off as sincere, and funny, and maybe a tad boring. 

Bruce, who learned the art of disguise from Ra’s Al Ghul, is very impressed with how Kent pulls it off. Nobody would ever guess that this farmbred Kansas boy is also an alien who nearly leveled Metropolis.

He blushes very easily, and is easy on the eyes. This makes Bruce’s goals easier to accomplish. His carefully honed reputation as a womanizing manwhore serves him well this time. He feeds Kent line after line about how he is serious this time, that what he feels for Clark is different, and he would like to take it slow so as to not blow it.

Kent is relieved. He wants to take things slow as well.

It takes five dates before Kent kisses him, long and slow and sweet outside his apartment building, blushing and shy. 

After that, Bruce pulls out all the stops. He sends flowers, and tickets to the opera. He buys Kent expensive cologne and artwork, and has takeout delivered to his desk at the Planet so that he won’t forget to eat again.

Most importantly, he stays attentive, showing up at Kent’s apartment after work, giving him foot rubs (even though they both know Kent doesn’t need them) and listening to Kent whine about work. 

He excels at playing the dutiful, infatuated, in-love boyfriend.

He puts off bedding Kent for as long as possible, partly because this is a line he is uncertain he should cross. At the same time, he can’t see a way around it. He needs Kent’s trust, and once he has it, he needs a way to weaken him enough to ensure he is no longer a threat. 

When Kent invites him to stay overnight on Saturday, Bruce accepts. He tells himself that there is no other choice, but a part of him is uneasy through it all.

Kent is beautiful, spread out for him on cheap linen sheets, nearly gagging for it. 

When Bruce splits him open on his cock, he takes it beautifully, panting Bruce’s name, begging for release. It is exhilarating, holding this much power over the most powerful being on the planet.

After they are done, after Kent falls asleep in his arms, face buried in Bruce’s neck, he feels filthy and ashamed. This, he understands, is too far.

He continues with the facade. They date for six months, and Kent invites him to Christmas with his family. Clark’s already met Alfred, and he took Alfred’s cold, disapproving demeanor to mean that the older man hates him. Bruce hasn’t seen fit to correct the misconception. Alfred is not angry with Clark, Alfred is seething mad at Bruce. Bruce has not disappointed Alfred like this, not since the maggots incident of ‘92. 

Martha and Jonathan Kent are warm, friendly and welcoming to Bruce. They see the man who was orphaned as a young boy, and the man who their son loves. So they open their home to Bruce. Bruce looks around, observes and catalogues every possible way in which the Kents hid a secret this big for nearly three decades. 

He thinks he is a hit with the parents, but he can’t be sure. When he slips into the bathroom, he overhears (okay, he slipped a bug in Clark’s dinner jacket earlier) Martha Kent describing her concerns to her son.

“I don’t know,” she is telling him, “there is something off about him. Clark, sweetheart, are you sure you are not rushing into anything?”

“Give him a chance, Ma,” Clark is pleading. “He is nervous. He really is a wonderful man. What they show in the media, that’s not him.”

“I trust you honey,” she says. “I just want you to be careful. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

Maybe it’s a woman thing. Or maybe it’s just a women-who-are-named-Martha thing. But there is a lot to be said for motherly instinct.

Eight months into their relationship, Clark steps up his game. He brings Bruce coffee in the morning, he makes him his favorite meals, and gets him tickets to the auto show in Metropolis. Bruce understands when he is being buttered up for a blow. He worries if maybe Kent is about to dump him, but that doesn’t fit with Kent’s character profile Bruce has drawn up. Kent is the kind of person who rips off a band aid.

He would think that maybe Kent is cheating on him, but since Bruce has everything in his apartment bugged, and is tracking all of his movements, it is an impossible scenario.

Over dinner that Sunday, he says to Clark, “Just spit it out, will you? I am getting worried.”

Red-faced with worry and fear, Clark confesses. “I am Superman.”

Bruce plays disbelief, shock, betrayal, horror, wonder, curiosity, one after another, each emotion following the next in perfection synchronicity. He pretends and plays the part. He pretends to storm out for a while, with a picture perfect _I need some space, please, Clark, I need to process this_ , and lets Kent stew for a while.

He lets him stew for three days.

On day four, he shows up in Kent’s apartment, with flowers and a kiss.

“I love you,” he says, reciting the lines he practiced in front of the mirror that morning. “I don’t care about anything else. I don’t care who or what you are. I love you.”

They have make-up sex on the ceiling of Clark’s bedroom. Clark carries him up, floating to the top, holding on to him as they kiss, Bruce’s legs entwined around Clark’s waist. It turns out Kent was holding back. Now that he thinks there are no secrets between them, he fucks Bruce with increased vigor, pressing him up against the wall and fucking in hard.

“How are we going to clean up cum stains on the ceiling?” Bruce laughs, a little high on endorphins.

Clark only says, _Love you_ in answer.

It is easy enough to get Kent where he wants him. 

At the manor, after a round of athletic sex, Clark falls asleep. Bruce slips out into the bathroom and applies dark lines of makeup around his biceps, and hips. 

Bruce developed the formula himself. It resembles bruised flesh, and is impossible to tell from reality. He makes the handprints around his hips exactly in Kent’s size. 

When Clark wakes up the next morning, Bruce groans and moans, unable to move.

“Wake up, sleeping beauty. You said you had an eight am meeting,” Clark’s chipper tone greets him.

He makes a production of trying to sit up, groaning and trying to hide his pain from Clark.

“Bruce,” Clark jumps on it as Bruce knew he would, “are you - honey.” He goes silent, pulling the covers off, and taking in the black and blue bruises. 

He presses one giant hand over the handprint on Bruce’s hip, where it lines up perfectly. 

“Bruce,” he croaks out, “did I do this?”

“Clark, please don’t overreact -”

“Overreact! I am hurting you!”

“It’s fine,” Bruce lies. “It’s - it happens. We got carried away, and believe me, I wasn’t complaining last night -”

“Sweetheart! I can’t - I am - oh God, I am so sorry!”

It doesn’t go exactly as Bruce hopes it would. Instead of leaning toward ways to reduce his strength in bed, Clark decides to put a stop to any and all fun in bed.

Bruce is not a big enough liar to say he isn’t disappointed about that.

Clark keeps his word. They continue to go on dates, and they continue to fall asleep in each other’s beds, but Clark doesn’t touch him. No hugs, no brushes to the back of his waist, and no arm around his shoulders.

Bruce actually misses the goddamn son of a bitch. This is the problem with long term undercover missions. He gets in too deep, and loses sight of the big picture.

They last six weeks. 

Completely out of ideas by then, Bruce pulls a move out of every teen movie and eats a Popsicle in front of Clark. Kent’s resolve comes crumbling down faster than a house of cards. He pounces on Bruce, fucking his mouth, pounding his ass, and making a mess of both their clothes.

“Okay, we need another plan,” Clark says afterward. Bruce tastes the sweet tinge of victory.

It is convenient enough to set up events to conspire thus - a villain in Metropolis gets an idea, planted by Batman in the first place, to throw beams of red sunlight at Superman. Superman comes crashing to earth, realizes that red sunlight weakens him temporarily, takes the concept to Star Labs, understands the technology enough to learn that long term exposure could permanently humanize him.

He fights off the villain and puts him behind bars. But when he comes back home that night, he brings a couple of large sized lamps that can produce red sunlight.

Bruce plays up the concerned boyfriend. They go a few rounds of _it is not worth weakening yourself over, I told you I am fine, I don’t care about a few bruises!_ And _‘But I do! I don’t want to hurt you!’_

But Bruce gives in, and lets Clark set up the lamps in their bedroom. 

They have sex, and this time, Bruce leaves off the bruise makeup. Clark thinks it is working. Bruce lets him think it is working.

When Clark is at work, Bruce tampers with the settings of the lamps, gradually increasing the intensity, a little every day so as to not be noticeable, but enough to be more and more debilitating.

He notices the changes before Kent mentions it. Of course he does. He is watching for it.

There’s hair on Clark’s pillow. He starts losing hair, not enough to bald him, but enough to perhaps suggest a human metabolism. He is thinner, his oversized shirts being even more oversized on him than usual. He loses weight, and then his appetite. He struggles more while punching villains in the suit. 

It comes to a head one night when he tells Bruce, as they are sitting up in bed, channel surfing, “I think the red light is crippling me permanently.”

They argue some more. Bruce plays the role, and Clark fights back. It is boring and utterly predictable and at this point, Bruce can do this half asleep. But Clark says something that gives him pause.

“Maybe I don’t wanna be Superman!” he yells. “Maybe I just want to be Clark! I just want to be your boyfriend. I want to marry you and grow old with you! Would that be so bad?”

This wasn’t in Bruce’s script. His stunned face is good, because obviously, Clark thinks he is freaking out about the M word.

“Okay,” he is saying now, holding his hands up in a placating gesture, “I need you to say something now.”

_If Clark doesn’t want to be Superman anymore, thats mission accomplished. But -_

_He only wants that because he thinks he can live out the rest of his human life with Bruce Wayne._

Clark is still waiting for an answer. He makes a decision.

“If that -” he croaks out, trying to force the words out in a flimsy cover for emotion, “if that is your idea of a proposal, I expect better.”

Clark smiles. Good. He thinks Bruce is overwhelmed by the idea of long term commitment. 

“This is not a proposal,” Clark says. “But I am glad to know you’re not entirely against the idea.”

“You thought I was going to run screaming from the room, didn’t you?”

Clark shakes his head, but when Bruce glares at him, he admits, “Maybe.”

They make it to another six months before it all goes to hell. 

The software that he has tracking Clark’s every move pings with an alert for a credit card purchase. Clark just bought an engagement ring. It is expensive, and way out of Clark’s pay grade. Bruce sees he’s put it on two credit cards. He’s going to be paying it off for a few months. 

Clark is going to propose.

This is huge. This is much bigger and much farther than Bruce ever hoped to get when he cooked up this insane plan. He never thought they would get to this point.

Sex was one thing. Fake dating was another. But marriage? And Bruce is sure Kent is expecting the real deal. 

_Alfred is going to kill me._

This can’t go on. He realizes that right away, because even he knows this is unsustainable long term. He can’t hope to keep Clark unaware of the fact that he is Batman if they started living together.

But cutting Clark loose now would mean he would be away from the red sunlight. Over time, with enough exposure to earth’s yellow sun, he would be back to being Superman. This time, with a good reason to hate Bruce Wayne.

In the end, Bruce’s dilemma turns out to be for nothing. Doped up on Red Kryptonite by Brainiac, his powers off whack and out of control, Superman flies to the Manor and misses the balcony to Bruce’s bedroom, crashing into the tunnels beside the old manor instead. When he wakes up, he makes his way through the tunnels, into the batcave, and finds the station of computers where Bruce has monitors showing Kent’s apartment.

He finds the research on ways to weaken Superman.

The audio and video files from months of surveillance on Lois Lane, Martha and Jonathan Kent, and Perry White. 

The research into getting tickets for that first Kerth Awards Gala where they met. His digging into Kent’s credit card history, to see which Chinese Restaurant he visited most frequently. Every aspect of their relationship, laid bare.

When Bruce rushes into the batcave, alerted by the alarms he’d set up for this very purpose, Kent is sitting at the desk in front of his station of computers. In front of him, on the table is the open box, containing the ring nestled in it. 

On the seven monitors behind him, the same video is playing. 

The video of the first time they had sex, Kent laid out on the bed, panting, holding on to Bruce as he gets fucked, his eyes closed in pleasure. On the right hand side of each screen, Bruce’s notes are scrolling, mentioning heart rate and respiration, and potential weaknesses displayed during arousal.

Kent looks up at him. His eyes are red rimmed. His face is blank. Expression empty. He stares at Bruce Wayne like he is seeing him for the first time.

“Kal El,” Bruce begins, taking a step forward.

“Stop,” he states, voice filled with so much hurt that he makes that one word cutting enough to draw blood. 

That’s when Bruce notices what is sitting at Kent’s feet. The lead lined chest that Bruce has been secreting away slowly for the past year - his pile of green Kryptonite that is now the largest collection of the stuff on planet Earth.

“I need you to answer just one question,” Kent says, and he is crying now, not looking away from Bruce, but the tears are falling down his cheeks. His eyes are clear, and he is staring at Bruce, unblinking, but he makes no move to stop his tears. They fall, and he looks at Bruce, and speaks. “Was any of it real?”

Bruce owes him honesty.

“No.” 

This one word bares him open. Kent’s face crumples, he puts his face in his hands and sobs, while Bruce stands there, unable to do anything. The footage playing on the monitors has audio, so they can both hear Bruce on the screen grunting, calling Kent beautiful, and _oh so tight, you are perfect,_ as Kent begs, _please Bruce, please, please…_

After what seems like an eternity, Clark gets up off the chair. He turns around, puts a fist through the central monitor. The whole setup comes crashing down. There’s glass in Clark’s fist, and he is bleeding, but he doesn’t seem to care.

He leaves the ring on the table. Bruce doesn’t know why that bothers him more than anything else, but it does.

Kent leaves the ring on the table, and walks away. 

When he is at the collapsed door, he turns back, meets Bruce's eye, and says, “Did you have to make me believe you loved me too?”

~

The aftermath is ugly. 

Bruce is sitting at the chair that Kent - no Clark - just vacated. The single unbroken monitor is still showing data from the trackers that are still on Kent’s clothes. He is in Bruce’s bedroom, gathering his laptop and his work bag. Then, he is stumbling through the gardens of the manor.

Bruce hears the audio coming in. He is panting, out of breath, surely from both the Green Kryptonite and whatever Brainiac exposed him to. He is talking to someone, and when Alfred replies, Bruce jumps, surprised at the amount of pity and kindness he hears in the older man’s voice.

“I will call you a cab, Master Kent,” Alfred is telling him. “You are in no shape to fly.”

“No need to call me that anymore, Mr. Pennyworth. I don’t think you will ever see me again.”

“If it is worth anything, I advised him against it.” 

“I figured,” Kent says, and Bruce is again thrown by how broken he sounds, “that’s why you are no longer speaking to him.”

“I am in the process of finding myself a nice retirement home,” Alfred tells him, and just like that, Bruce’s world comes crumbling down around his ears.

He stays in the half collapsed batcave, watching Kent’s dot move across the map. The cab takes him to the airport, and from there, Kent buys a ticket - not to Metropolis, but to Kansas. He sees the transcript of the call Kent makes to Perry White, begging for some personal time off.

Then, to Bruce’s shock, he makes one more call, to Dr. Klein at Star Labs, requesting two red Sunlight lamps. Dr. Klein agrees to leave them out for Superman whenever he can pick them up.

“I know you are listening,” Kent murmurs in an undertone, speaking predictably to the bug stuck to the underside of jacket, “You can stop tracking me now. I won’t be a threat to you anymore.”

It should be victory, but it tastes bitter in his tongue.

The rest of this fallout is tiring. 

Kent makes his way to his parents’ house, obviously exhausted. But he brushes aside his parents’ concerns and goes about the entire place with a fine toothed comb, picking out and destroying every bug Bruce planted there. He even finds the custom made directional mics.

Next he removes all of the bugs on his clothes, cutting off Bruce’s last connection to the man. 

He assumes that Clark calls Lois and tells her, because the next thing he knows, Lane is in Kent’s apartment, clearing out the place like she is a professional bug sweeper for the CIA. She presumably does the same in her own place and in Perry White’s as well.

Lane also mails him a box of all the broken, smashed equipment with a note filled with profanity on it.

Over the next few weeks, Kent is listed on leave on the Planet’s HR system. Superman remains a no-show, but Bruce remains on the lookout, at least until a nuclear reactor blows in Edinburgh and Superman still doesn’t make an appearance.

Diana tells him that Superman is out of the game for good.

Bruce got what he wanted, but it feels like defeat.

When Alfred finally packs his bags and leaves, Bruce knows there is no coming back from this. 

He keeps tabs on Clark for a little while longer. He sees on CCTV footage when Kent makes it back to work, after nearly a month’s absence. He looks terrible, thinner and frailer. Nobody would ever mistake Clark Kent for Superman now. 

Bruce still has a public narrative to spin, so he goes out, gets raging drunk, and lets himself be photographed with a new blonde hunk. He’s got his hands on the hunk’s ass in the picture. There is no mistaking what they are going to be up to later that night. Twitter laments the breakup of KentWayne. Bruce reads that people are sending Kent cupcakes at the Daily Planet.

At least some good is coming out of this clusterfuck.

Lane writes a scathing editorial about human rights abuses in several Wayne facilities in Vietnam. Bruce surreptitiously looks into it and discovers that she is right. It takes him several weeks to fix it.

Kent continues to lead a lonely and miserable life. He starts work at six in the morning and doesn’t leave before midnight. He gets a promotion and a raise, and moves to a new apartment. He doesn’t date. The man of steel is never sighted again. 

An expensive engagement ring still sits in the batcave. 

The ring keeps its intended owner company, both of them alone in a deserted and empty manor.

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. If you found Bruce Wayne OOC and contrived here, well, join the club sista. I found Bruce Wayne in BvS OOC and contrived. This is a BvS Extension story.  
> 2\. If you ARE going to write about conflict, two privileged white dudes beating each other up is BORING. I found this muse a far more interesting story of tragedy than what BvS ended up being.  
> 3\. I actually don't hate BvS. I just wish they had changed about million things in it.  
> 4\. Clark never dates again. That is my story and I am sticking to it.  
> 5\. Moral of this story is - always listen to your mother.  
> 6\. I have gotten a couple of requests to write a happy ending to this, but I may or may not do it depending on the response to this story.  
> 7\. Comments are loved!


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